Nine. In Groups of Three.

Every now and then someone will mention something about a family with a number of children similar to the number we have and, forgetting our own family size, I’ll find myself aghast – wondering how anyone could possibly manage such a big family.

Recently, during a Sunday school lesson at church, the instructor was making some point about service. He pointed to me and said, “Now, I’m guessing you have the most children of anyone in the room. Let’s say it’s a Monday morning and you wake up feeling sick. And you have nine kids you have to get up and going and off to school . . .” I don’t recall the point (well, ok, I do, recall the point [and it ended with a nice tribute to Abe’s helpful nature], but it’s beside the point here), but, as he said that, I thought, “Well good heavens. That’s a silly scenario. Completely unrealistic. Surely it would simply be an impossible task – sick or well!” (Never mind that I do in fact get nine kids up, and going, and off where they need to be each day – with minimal trouble.)

But other times it honestly just does not seem that I actually have enough kids to account for such a preposterous sounding number. Most often around here it truly doesn’t feel like there are eleven of us. It doesn’t seem wild or chaotic (though perhaps a bit louder than most are accustomed to); and when I took these pictures the other day of “the big kids”, “the little kids” and “the babies” . . . it hardly seemed a remarkable number of children at all.

See what I mean? Three measly groups of three? Surely that’s nothing to write home about.

(Although, as evidenced by this blog, I do rather think they are something to write home about.)